


Leftovers

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Series: | January 2016 Prompt Challenge | [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt!Stiles, M/M, Pining Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek thinks Stiles' boyfriend is a douche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leftovers

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, because I'm worried about the tagging system, Stiles has a shitty, abusive boyfriend here. It's not Derek, and the abuse isn't directly shown--only the results and the aftermath. But if that's a concern for folks, there it is, plainly. There's a happy ending, though, and Stiles isn't weak.

Derek hated Stiles’ boyfriend.

He was rude, obnoxious, particularly dense, and Derek, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out what Stiles saw in him. He joked with Derek as if they were best friends—the guy was only _fucking_ Derek’s best friend; it didn’t make _them_ best friends—teased Derek to near-offense, and made a blatant pass at Cora when she visited during the holidays. Unfortunately, Stiles did nothing but speak highly of the guy. Unfortunately, Stiles was too blinded by lust—“It’s not lust, Derek. I think I love him.”—to see the guy’s faults. Unfortunately, Stiles smiled too brightly, and his eyes glittered so sweetly Derek’s heart fluttered whenever he looked at his boyfriend, so Derek was forced to deal with it. For Stiles. because they were best friends, and Derek had been supportive of Stiles for as long as he could remember.

He’d also been in love with Stiles for as long as he could remember.

From catching tadpoles in the preserve’s creek, to sharing comic books, to bandaging his skinned knees when he taught him to rollerblade, Stiles had always been the center of Derek’s orbit. Days filled with misadventures, and laughter, stealing snacks from the kitchen while the other distracted parents. Nights of backyard camping and Trivial Pursuit, catching fireflies and Star Wars movie marathons, staying up at all hours to argue character and plot theories, which characters made the best couples. Derek held Stiles’ hand at Claudia’s funeral and was the first person Stiles told about his bisexuality.

Derek was also Stiles’ first kiss, as Stiles was his; a kiss Stiles suggested one night in high school to ‘see if Derek was maybe bi, too.’ Derek was, had known for a while before Stiles ever mentioned his own sexuality, but had been too cowardly to say. The kiss had been a little too clumsy, and a little too eager, but it was the best Derek ever had because it was _Stiles_.

Derek _loved_ Stiles, so he _really_ hated Stiles’ boyfriend.

“Dude, he’s actually pretty cool once you get to know him,” Scott had said.

“He was just being playful. Don’t take it so personally,” Cora had said.

Even Lydia seemed on Team Stiles’ Boyfriend. “He makes Stiles happy. You want Stiles happy, don’t you?”

Derek just sighed and forced a smile, told them they were right. Of course he wanted Stiles happy; but Stiles didn’t call Scott or Cora or Lydia when his boyfriend abandoned him in some random part of town after a fight. No, it was Derek’s phone ringing at all hours when the boyfriend was gone to parts unknown and ignoring Stiles’ texts. And it was in Derek’s living room where he’d grabbed Stiles by the elbow, and Stiles’ flinched. It was with Derek that Stiles shrugged out of his hoodie revealing a mottling of bruises where his boyfriend grabbed or held him a little too hard.

Sometimes, to keep from punching the boyfriend, Derek clenched his fists so hard his fingernails bruised his palms. Sometimes, to keep from voicing his vitriol, Derek ground his jaw so hard his teeth ached. Mostly, he just gave Stiles whatever he needed, be it a place to spend the night, or a compassionate ear to listen.

Derek’s cell phone rang in the middle of dinner.

A dinner for one at _Vito’s_ —where Erica and Boyd worked—because Derek didn’t date. They were _his_ friends; friends who had only met Stiles in passing, but saw how Derek felt for him; friends he told about Stiles’ shitty boyfriend; friends who let him drink away his sorrows when it all became too much.

Stiles’ grinning face and name lit up the screen, the _Star Wars_ theme loud enough to drown out the buzzing vibration, and Derek answered before the drumroll finished.

“Stiles,” he said, and Erica smirked as she refilled his glass. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Derek. Hey…” Stiles heaved a breath, wet and shaky, then sniffled. His voice was croaky, like he’d been screaming. Or crying. It sounded like Stiles was crying. Derek swallowed hard and pressed his lips into a thin line. “—can I crash at yours tonight?”

“Yeah, of course,” Derek said without hesitating. He raised his hand so Erica didn’t leave right away. She stayed, her brows pinched in worry. “What happened?” he pressed.

After clearing his throat, Stiles said, “Todd and I just had a fight.” He suddenly sounded less vulnerable, less raw, pretending, but he became desperate again quickly enough. “I think we broke up. I don’t know. I just…I just need to get away from here, you know? And you were the first person I thought to call.”

“Are you okay? Are you safe?” On a napkin, Derek wrote a to-go order—chicken marsala, Stiles’ favorite—and passed it to Erica.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Stiles murmured.

After frowning at him for a moment, Erica said, “This is for _him_ , isn’t it? You hate chicken marsala.” She hated watching Derek pine. She hated watching Derek hurt. She was a wonderful and fierce friend, and Derek was so grateful to have her. She didn’t know he’d been too lazy to go grocery shopping and ordering something to go would be how he’d feed Stiles should he show up hungry.

“I hate _mushrooms_ ,” he impulsively corrected after pulling the phone away. “But Stiles likes it.”

 With a resigned sigh, Erica took Derek’s debit card and disappeared into the back of the restaurant to ring in his order.

To Stiles, he said, “I’m at dinner right now. Let me get a to-go box and pay, then I’ll head home. I can be there in about fifteen minutes. Can you stay safe until then?”

“I—yeah,” Stiles said, quiet and demure and so unlike himself. “Yeah, I can stay safe.”

Hanging up, Derek’s parting words were a reminder for Stiles to be safe, a plea for Stiles to call him again if anything happened, a promise to see him soon. What more could he do?

Erica brought the food, still deliciously warm, in a bag, with complimentary dinner rolls and disposable flatware. After setting it on the table, she handed him the booklet with the check. “Is everything okay?”

“His fucking boyfriend again,” Derek growled. His hand trembled holding the pen as he filled out the check, and he nearly tore through the paper with his angry signature.

“Look, Derek—” Erica started.

“I know,” he sighed. “I know, okay? But I can’t abandon him. He calls me because he trusts me with this. Only me. No one else.”

“Or he’s using you,” she countered, resting a hand on her hip. She pursed her lips and cocked an eyebrow in challenge, but Derek just shook his head and averted his gaze.

“Stiles isn’t like that,” he muttered, gathering the food.

“He’s emotionally compromised,” she said. “He might not even realize he’s doing it. But you should, for your own sake.”

Derek stared at her for a long moment, the sincerity in her brown eyes, how she worried her bottom lip despite how it might fade her lipstick. She always went out of her way to try to take care of Derek as fiercely as his own sisters did. He loved her, and maybe in another life, he could have fallen in love with her. Maybe.

“I know,” he said softly. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I have to go.” He gathered his food and left the restaurant before she could prod him further.

Fifteen minutes later, Derek walked into his apartment and found it empty. He tried to ignore the unease and worry that was quickly growing to panic. He’d given Stiles a key, but Stiles had never used it the way Derek intended—he always called before doing so, or knocked if he showed up unannounced. Derek sighed and put the marsala in the fridge.

As he put a kettle to boil for tea, his front door opened.

Stiles slinked into the apartment, head down, hood up, backpack slung over his shoulder.

Derek walked out of the kitchen and leaned against the breakfast bar. “Hey,” he said, voice gentle. “You alright?” He watched Stiles avoid looking at him and dropped his backpack beside the couch. He only entered the living room when Stiles began pacing. “Stiles?”

“He hit me,” Stiles said, turning to face Derek with glassy eyes. And the inflamed skin of his cheek, a red smear as bright and stark against Stiles’ pale skin as paint, enraged Derek until it was all he saw. “He actually fucking _hit me_. Can you believe that fucking asshole?” Though he didn’t flinch when Derek all but rushed him, he did wince when Derek grabbed him by the jaw to get a better look at his face.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Derek snarled.

“Don’t bother,” Stiles sighed. “He’ll be eating through a straw for a while with the beating I gave him.”

Maybe Derek imagined Stiles nuzzling his palm, but he wouldn’t break the contact between them if he didn’t have to. Instead, he ran a soft thumb over the forming bruise and heaved a sigh, unable to stave off the proud smirk pulling at his lips. Of course Stiles didn’t need his protection; Stiles could take care of himself.

“I can’t believe he fucking hit me,” Stiles lamented, sad more than angry.

“He was a tool,” Derek muttered, still cradling Stiles’ face. “And you’re better off without him.”

“It hurts.”

“Want some ice?”

“No. Well, yeah, sure,” Stiles said, acquiescing. Derek always tended Stiles’ injuries, and now would be no different. “But that’s not what I meant. It hurts that it’s over.”

Derek hummed noncommittally, then reluctantly released Stiles’ face to disappear into the kitchen for ice. “You hungry?” he called, rummaging in the freezer.

“Starved,” came the enthusiastic response. It was a relief to know he still had an appetite.

“I have some leftovers from dinner in the fridge you’re welcome to have,” Derek said, filling a plastic bag with ice cubes. He wrapped the bag in a dish towel. “I’ll go grocery shopping in the morning, if that’s okay with you.”

Walking into the kitchen, Stiles smirked despite his marred face and shattered relationship. “Dude, you think I care? I’m just thrilled you’re letting me stay the night.”

Ducking out from between Stiles and the fridge, Derek furrowed his brow. “You seriously think I’d turn you away? Leave you to that fuckhead you’re dating?”

“ _Was_ dating,” Stiles corrected. Even if he didn’t use the key as Derek wanted, at least Stiles helped himself to the kitchen without asking, filling a glass with water, getting a plate. “And I know you haven’t liked him. I always called you whining when he was being shitty, which was a lot. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you let me reap what I’d sown.”

Aghast, all Derek could do was breathe a soft, “Jesus, Stiles.”

But he wasn’t heard, because when Stiles opened the to-go box, his face lit up in utter delight. “Dude! I _love_ chicken marsala!” He quickly spooned it out onto the plate and stuck it in the microwave to reheat. “Vito’s right? Man, their marsala is the _best_. Don’t you have friends that work there?”

And Derek didn’t understand how Stiles could have called him all those times and not known. How Stiles came to his apartment with a bruised face and thought Derek would have abandoned him. How Stiles could completely neglect a serious conversation for the sake of food. Derek didn’t believe Erica when she originally said Stiles was oblivious of his feelings, but he was starting to think better of it.

“Yeah,” he said absently. He took the boiling, kettle from the stove top and fixed himself a cup of tea.  From the corner of his eye, he watched Stiles pull the steaming plate from the microwave and stir its contents.

“Derek,” he said softly. When he raised an eyebrow, Stiles said, “You hate chicken marsala.”

“I don’t hate chicken marsala. I hate—”

“Yeah, _mushrooms_ , I know. Whatever. It’s one of the key ingredients in chicken marsala. Like, one of the main ones.”

“So?” Derek went back to his tea. The leaves steeped slowly and turned the hot water dark.

“These aren’t your dinner leftovers,” Stiles said carefully.

“No,” he sighed. “They aren’t. So what?”

Subdued, Stiles lowered his gaze and took a bite of the food. After swallowing, he said, “You know what Todd and I fought about?”

“Does it matter?” Derek asked. “He _hit you_.”

“He accused me of being in love with you.”

Derek abandoned his tea to face Stiles with his surprise written in his eyes and a flush in his cheeks. “What?”

Stiles continued looking at the food he compulsively stirred around his plate. “He accused me of being in love with you, then hit me when I answered him.”

“He thought you were a liar?” Derek tried. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “He’s a piece of shit, Stiles. You’re better off without him.”

Shaking his head, Stiles said, “Probably, but I didn’t bother lying.”

“Why’d he hit you, then?”

“Because I said I was,” Stiles snapped. Then he added, “In love with you. Obviously.”

Derek swallowed. “Obviously?”

“Obviously.” Stiles looked up with a small smile. “And you love me, too, right? Or have I been reading this whole thing wrong for years?”

“I love you,” Derek confessed. He was a little ashamed and a lot nervous, but Stiles watched him with his beautiful sunset eyes and such fondness that his fears were quickly laid to rest. “You don’t have to go back to him. Ever.”

“Sure you don’t mind Todd’s, uh, leftovers? I don’t really feel like I’m good enough for you, you know? After everything…”

“Stiles…” Derek chided. How could he think such a thing?

“I’ve gotten better at kissing since we tested your bisexuality,” Stiles offered. “And, you know, _other stuff_.  But just to be completely sure, did that test ever come back positive?”

Derek rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress his grin. “Yeah,” he said. “Totally positive.” He reached across the small kitchen and hauled Stiles in by the front of his shirt. “One hundred percent positive and one hundred percent in love with you.”

“Good,” Stiles breathed. “That’s really good.” Then he kissed Derek and crowded him against the counter, boxing him in with his hips and his hands gripping the granite edge.

Stiles stayed that night and never left.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
